


Odds and Ends

by Linguam



Series: Speed, Surprise, and Violence of Action [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Savoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguam/pseuds/Linguam
Summary: “I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three.” – UnknownWhen all else fails, you know you can always count on your brothers to have your back.A collection of stand-alones depicting the everyday life, ups and downs, and (mis)adventures of our four favorite boys.





	1. Of Lessons Taught

**Author's Note:**

> On my way home from chess club (regrettably, I don't actually play; just went a few times to give it a shot) this idea popped into my head. It's by far one of the nerdiest things I've ever written (I'm so proud of it, lol) but what the hell.
> 
> This one's set pretty early after they went from a three to a four (I'm thinking six months after d'Artagnan joined the team).
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“What is your goal?”

“To win.”

“Obviously. How will you achieve that?”

“By locking you in.”

“Indeed. How?”

“…”

“It is the same principle which we discussed yesterday.”

“…”

“Any thoughts?”

“I’m thinking about punching you…?”

Athos looks up from the board, eyebrow raised.

“I hardly think that would be an effective move,” he drawls, though the glint in his eyes is encouraging the young man in front of him to try.

D’Artagnan groans, eyes trained on the pieces scattered over the wooden board, black in such clear dominance it’s not even funny. Only sad.

And pathetic.

On his part.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” he asks, fingers massaging his temple in a vain attempt to quell the headache building within.

“Practice,” Athos says, as infuriatingly calm as ever.

D’Artagnan snorts, can’t really help it. He knows he should pay more attention, knows that he should be grateful that Athos is taking the time to teach him something – whatever that “something” may be – but they’ve been at it for hours, and he’s still making such glaring mistakes that, when his mentor points them out, he just wants to scorch his eyeballs out with a still burning-hot poker.

“Right. Practice,” he parrots grumpily.

“You need to enhance your strategic thinking,” Athos explains, for what feels like the umpteenth time. “And I daresay that you will be grateful for it, should you ever find yourself in a compromising situation.”

“That rather depends on the situation, doesn’t it?” Aramis says with a mischievous wink as he saunters over to their table, munching on an apple.

D’Artagnan feels his face reddening at the insinuation – though he really should’ve stopped being surprised by it, by now – as their team sniper gazes down at the board, expression pensive.

Aramis throws one quick look at Athos, something soft and teasingly reproachful crossing his features, before he turns to d’Artagnan with a look that d’Artagnan would have interpreted as genuine sympathy if he hadn’t known the man so well.

“It seems you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament, my friend.”

“Jeez, really? I hadn’t noticed,” d’Artagnan grumbles, eyes back to studying the position of his pieces. He’s not well-versed in chess, has never really been interested in tactics and strategizing – much prefers a head-on kind of approach – but it takes no mastermind to read that he will have lost – again – within the next few rounds if something drastic doesn’t happen soon.

Aramis hums. Takes another bite of his apple.

“There is, of course, one easy way to solve this.”

D’Artagnan snorts.

“And how would you kno–”

Before he can even perceive what is happening, Aramis has reached forward and moved his Queen to attack Athos’ King, placing him in check. It’s a bold move, one that d’Artagnan actually _had_ seen; it forces Athos to abort his own attack on d’Artagnan’s King, granting him some, albeit temporary, leeway. It’s a good move, it would have been a _great_ move, if it hadn’t also pushed d’Artagnan’s Queen right into the waiting, unforgiving arms of Athos’ black Bishop.

“Are you insane?” he blurts, dumbstruck and more than a little irritated. “You just sacrificed my Queen!”

Aramis’ smile is soft, his eyes on Athos when he answers.

“Sometimes you have to sacrifice your most valuable piece in order to win.”

D’Artagnan frowns, only _just_ manages to hold back the scathing reply dripping at the tip of his tongue, and looks back down at the board. If Athos’ Bishop takes his Queen, which it has to, it’s the only viable option, then… He’s forcing Athos’ hand, he _wants_ Athos’ Bishop on E6. But why…?

D’Artagnan’s eyes almost fall out of their sockets when he finally sees it, and he can’t help but groan.

“The Rook,” he moans. “Rook takes Bishop on E6, and is then in direct line to the King, while my Bishop and Knight cover all other escape routes. It’s check mate.”

“Exactly,” Athos says calmly, his gaze locked onto Aramis’, an unreadable expression on his face.

D’Artagnan rubs his face in frustration, feels like a complete idiot for missing something so obvious.

“How come I didn’t see that…” he mutters, and can’t quite hold the self-reproach out of his voice.

“Because you didn’t want to. You never wish to give up the piece you care about the most, so the thought didn’t even occur to you that you had that possibility… That it was your only option.”

D’Artagnan stares at the marksman in disbelief.

“You play chess?”

Aramis shrugs and takes another infuriating bite of his apple.

“I know _how_ to play, but I don’t often engage in the actual _playing._ It’s far too time-consuming.”

D’Artagnan can’t much argue the point.

“But still… _You?"_

Aramis raises an eyebrow at his incredulous tone.

“And why is that so hard to believe?”

D’Artagnan gives him a flat look that, judging by the slightly impressed quirk of the sniper’s lips, could almost rival Athos’.

“Because you’re you?”

Porthos huffs a laugh where he sits in the sofa, some game or other flickering on the screen of their base’s outdated TV.

“Whelp’s got a point, ‘Mis.”

Aramis places his free hand over his heart with a dramatic sigh.

“Alas, you wound me, my friends.”

“My tutelage wasn’t a complete waste of time, then,” Athos says, and the softness of his voice takes d’Artagnan by surprise.

Narrowing his eyes, he looks between his two brothers, who are once again engaging in one of their silent conversations. He’s gotten better at reading them, but they still occasionally elude him.

Now, is one of those instances.

“What am I missing here?” he asks, game momentarily forgotten as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Athos looks at him, a wry smile on his lips.

“Let’s just say that the circumstances in which I taught Aramis chess were less… tranquil than these.”

“I might have been a little less than my usual, pristine self,” Aramis concedes gallantly.

There’s a snort and Porthos cranes his neck to give their sniper an unimpressed look.

“That what you call several cracked ribs, a broken clavicle, and almost gettin’ pneumonia from a pierced lung?”

“Don’t forget the broken leg,” Athos reminds dryly, giving the sharpshooter a meaningful look.

Aramis shrugs, though his smile is somewhat sheepish.

“Yes well, like I said. It was a tough day.”

“It was a tough few weeks,” Athos corrects, but there’s no edge to it, and again there’s that secretive, almost intimate look of understanding passing between the two.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asks, gaze wandering cautiously between the three of them. Whatever it was is a sensitive subject, that much is obvious, but he simply can’t control his curiosity any longer.

Athos shoots Aramis a look and, receiving a nod, he turns to d’Artagnan.

“It was a mission gone wrong,” he begins. “A group of musketeers was sent on an PSD in Qatar, to escort a local politician and the classified information that he was carrying. However, the resistance somehow learned of their route and ambushed them on their return from the embassy. Three musketeers lost their lives, as did our HVU, and two were critically injured.”

D’Artagnan winces, but remains silent as his mentor takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I was not part of the team myself,” Athos continues eventually. “And afterward, I had the pleasure of tending to our sharpshooter who, as I am sure you remember, is far from the model patient.”

Aramis chuckles, but it’s somewhat subdued.

“Despite the grievance I caused you, my friend, I am grateful for your persistence at the time.”

There’s a lot more weight to the statement than the casual tone would suggest, but no one remarks upon it.

D’Artagnan’s eyes flit over to Porthos.

“What about you?” he asks, confused and for some reason a little uneasy that the big man has yet to contribute to the retelling. “Where were you?”

“Spendin’ two weeks on the run from the local militia, tryna contact these two. ‘Twas touch-and-go there for a while, but everythin’ turned out alright in the end. No serious harm done.”

Although Porthos is talking to him, it’s clear that the words are not meant for his ears alone.

D’Artagnan blinks at him.

“Aramis got out and you didn’t?”

Porthos gives a rueful smile, not even pretending to direct his next words at d’Artagnan.

“We had to make some tough calls,” he says, voice soft. “It wasn’t easy… but sometimes, there’s just no other way.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes travel between the three of them, shock and skepticism preventing him from voicing his thoughts out loud, because surely Porthos doesn’t mean… They had a mission that relied on those documents not finding their way to the rebellion, it was more than just _their_ lives at stake, but… They always, _always,_ stick together, no matter what. And Aramis loathes even the _idea_ of– he would rather die than to… He wouldn’t– not with _Porthos…_

D’Artagnan opens his mouth, and after one look to his left closes it just as quickly. The answer to his question is painfully easy to read in Aramis’ eyes, and although he might not possess the near telepathic understanding the other three seem to have of each other, he is no stranger to guilt.

Aramis would tell him if he asked, d’Artagnan knows.

_Did you leave Porthos behind?_

He doesn’t ask.

Instead, he looks back at the board, feeling like he’s seeing it for the first time.

Maybe there are some lessons to be learned here, after all.

The silence stretches on.

He can feel the others’ eyes on him.

He clears his throat.

“So…,” he begins, voice low. Contemplative. “Show me that move again?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see his teammates relax, the suffocating atmosphere of bad memories immediately lifting.

He ducks his head to hide his smirk and starts repositioning his pieces.

Sometimes, they really aren’t that hard to read.


	2. Smoke and Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on my phone one night when sleeping proved freakin' impossible (thank you, shaking and gurgling pipes). A nightmare/recollection, some angst, and a conversation.

  
_“They keep looking at me, momma.”_  
_“Who keeps looking at you, honey?”_  
_“The monsters in the dark.”_  
_“They aren’t monsters, my love. They are angels.”_  
_“They don’t sound like angels.”_  
_“Then what do they sound like?”_  
_“Like someone burning.”_  


\---

The scream is still in his throat when he wakes, a panic-infused balloon ready to burst. He lies completely still – not necessarily because he wants to, but because he literally can’t move – panic enveloping him like a two-sizes-too-small jumpsuit. For a long time, he just focuses on trying to get his breathing under control; it comes in ragged, quick succession but he’ll take anything to try and forget the smell of smoke, the taste of ashes.

He squeezes his eyes shut, forces air into his constricting lungs and tries to unclench the fingers that curl ruthlessly into the bedsheets.

Just a dream, he thinks, _tries_ to think around the flames that dance on his retina. Taunting him.

_They’re all fine._

_He’s fine._

Instead of feeling reassured by what he knows is the truth, dread spreads through Aramis’ body, rapid and merciless like wildfire. It’s been on constant replay in his mind for days. He knows he has to stop, knows he can’t keep thinking about it because if he does, he will drown in the black of smoke, the iron red of fire, but he can’t _stop_ thinking about it, can stop seeing him _burn_ –

He fumbles for his cellphone, nearly drops it on the floor on its way over from the nightstand. Shaky fingers scroll down the list of contacts – he manages to enter the correct PIN on his third try – before he finds the one he’s looking for.

His index finger hovers over Porthos’ name. The mere sight of it calms Aramis’ racing heart a little, but there’s still this deep, visceral _need,_ to call, to hear his voice, to just _make sure._ It’s ridiculous, irrational – Porthos is fine, he _knows_ this – but all logic was smothered by the pitiless fumes in Maceio. It’s been like this ever since – him waking up choking on remnants of ashes, the smell of gasoline nauseating – ever since he lay there on the safety of the roof, Porthos at the end of his scope.

Until red filled Aramis’ vision, the roar of an avalanche crashed into his ears, and he suddenly wasn’t, anymore.

Aramis’ chest tightens, eyes squeezing shut, and he releases a shaky breath.

No. He can’t call Porthos; Porthos is resting – as well he should – and no matter how much Aramis wants to, he can’t be that selfish. He _won’t_ call Porthos—

“This better be important, or so help me God I will have you on desk duty for a month.”

Athos’ voice is rough – which is hardly surprising, since it’s not even two in the morning – and promises vengeance on whomever it is that has disturbed his slumber. It’s one of those tones that Aramis has a honed instinct to pay attention to – to, at all cost, avoid conjuring – but right now, the familiarity of it is enough to draw a pitiful noise of relief from him.

There’s a creaking sound on the other end of the line and then Athos’ voice reappears, a tinge of concern now intermingled with the vexation.

“Aramis?”

Aramis opens his mouth without having decided what to say – he wasn’t even aware that he’d made the call, he can’t even _think_ properly – but words born out of an irrational, primal fear tumble out before he can stop them.

“Tell me he’s alright.”

It’s breathy and small, and he would be mortified at how pathetic he sounds – probably will be in the morning – but in the cacophony of emotions currently crashing over him, there’s no room for embarrassment.

There’s the softest of sighs in his ear.

“Aramis…”

“Just… tell me he’s alright.” Aramis swallows around the thickness in his throat, heart still hammering too hard and too fast in his chest. “Please, Athos.”

Athos sighs again, but his voice is painfully gentle when he answers. “He is alright. They wouldn’t have released him from the hospital if he hadn’t been. You know this.”

Aramis does know this, hasn’t been far from Porthos’ side since they dug him out from under the rubble, and he knows that Porthos is – basically – fine, that all that’s left is bruises and stiffness and sore muscles, he _knows_ this so why can’t he—

“Aramis.”

There’s just enough of a command and genuine worry in Athos’ voice to make him release a shaky breath, and some of the tension immediately, miraculously, dissipates with it. He forces another and leans back against the cushions, tries to will his muscles to release their vice-like grip on his person. For a long moment, his unsteady exhales and inhales are the only sound.

“Thank you,” he murmurs eventually. He clears his throat in an attempt to remove some of the roughness, and gives a small, sheepish laugh. “I know he is. I know, I just…”

He trails off, not really knowing how to continue.

There’s the unmistakable sound of a cork being unscrewed on the other side of the line, and Aramis can all too well picture his friend pouring himself a glass of scotch, with his one functioning hand.

With the worst of his anxiety smothered by Athos’ unmovable steadiness, guilt hits him like a truckload of granite.

“I’m so sorry, my friend,” he apologizes, ashamed by his childish behavior. “It’s in the middle of the night and I shouldn’t have called—”

“You’re lucky we are currently between missions,” Athos agrees calmly. There’s annoyance in his voice, but Aramis quickly recognizes it as exasperation more than irritation over being woken. “And you should have called. Though it is not me that you should call.”

Aramis sighs and rubs his free hand over his eyes.

“Athos…”

“No. Listen to me. This has gone on long enough, Aramis, and it’s fairly obvious that it will not go away on its own. You cannot keep ignoring it. You need to talk to him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aramis mumbles, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s too tired and, really, he knows there’s no point in even trying to lie to Athos.

He can practically feel said friend’s glare trying to etch itself into the side of his skull.

“Don’t play me for a fool. You have been unfocused, irritable, and edgy ever since Maceio; it requires no great amount of detective skills to conclude that all is not well.” Athos lets out a soft huff, a light touch of amusement in the sound. “Even D’Artagnan is starting to notice.”

Aramis recalls the immediate days following their return from Brazil in a haze: fear, uncertainty, and helplessness twisting his insides together with such cramp like force he’d thought for sure that something would burst.

He shudders where he lies, and pushes the memories away.

“I’m not ill,” he says, pleased that he can be honest in that, at least. Still, he knows that it won’t be long until his body starts shutting down in order to preserve what precious little energy it has left.

“Yet,” Athos says, echoing his thoughts. “You are not sleeping. Probably haven’t since we returned stateside.”

Aramis stays quiet, because, again, there’s no point in lying, and the static sound of Athos’ exhale fills his ear.

“Have you considered Prazosin?” he asks carefully after a while of silence, and although his voice is completely free of judgement, it still makes Aramis scrunch up his face in shame.

He has considered it, God forgive him, of course he has. They’re still in a secret pouch in his IFAK, since his returning from the VA, following Savoy. He’s thought about getting rid of them – he rarely needs them anymore – but something, a false promise of safety, stops him every time.

Because what if it comes a day when he can’t break free from the clutches of his mind on his own?

Even though the thought lingers, and the possibility terrifies him, the sigh he exhales carries only defeat. “I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

“Good,” Athos says. “Now get off the phone and get some sleep.”

Aramis smirks weakly, knows that sleep won’t come to him that easily. He knows Athos is right too, though; he should sleep, he _needs_ to sleep because his friend’s guess is spot on: he hasn’t had a decent nights rest for days. And he needs to talk to Porthos; even when dosed on pain meds, the man is perceptive enough to take note of his odd behavior.

He promises that he will try to sleep – actually does lie, this time, and he’s sure Athos isn’t fooled in the slightest; although his friend, thankfully, doesn’t call him on it. He is terrified of what he knows awaits him if he closes his eyes again, of seeing Porthos burn and melt away until nothing remains but bones. It had been bad for all of them when the explosion sounded, but Aramis had been the only one to actually see it happen, and it’s been forever scorched into his mind and onto his retina.

They call it a night soon after – Aramis managing to squeeze in another apology, and having Athos tell him that he’s an idiot – and the ensuing silence is, ironically, as deafening as the memory of crackling flames.

He sighs tiredly and gazes up at the ceiling. His eyes burn with lack of sleep, his body screaming for at least a few hours respite, but like a child afraid of the monsters hiding in the dark, he stubbornly stays awake.

And waits for dawn to come and chase them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maceio = A large city in eastern Brazil  
> Prazosin = One of many drugs that can be used to treat nightmares and anxiety in those suffering from PTSD  
> IFAK = Individual First Aid Kit (standard-issue)  
> VA = Veteran Affairs (healthcare facilities for former/injured soldiers)


	3. Thou Shalt Not Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I haven't updated for over a month, ugh. Travels, illness, and burial-by-snow-and-studies-alike, are my excuses. Not one hundred percent happy with this one, but I'm sick and I want to post something, so there. Hope y'all enjoy anyway.
> 
> I'm dedicating this to JackFan, awesome writer and tear-inducingly generous reviewer. I know I missed your birthday by several weeks but, in my defense, I didn't even know it was your birthday.... which really doesn't grant me any favors, does it? Anyway, look at this as a (inexcusably late) birthday gift.

“Trust in us, dear friend,  
they will not find you.  
Cometh they in search  
of refuge in your mind  
we will send them away.  
‘No further,’ we say.  
‘Begone, demons you  
twisted sons of wraiths,  
you begone from here!’  
Trust in us, dear brother,  
we will keep you safe.  
They will not take you.”

**.:.:.**

Porthos slams the door shut behind him and takes a deep breath. The night is clear, the air chilly and promising a decline in temperature well below zero. He isn’t particularly bothered by it, rarely suffers from the cold himself, but as he glances over at his teammate, it’s obvious he’s alone in his indifference.

Athos looks even gloomier than usual, the collar of his cloak drawn up so high it covers most of his face. The combination of the dark blue fabric and the pale grey light makes his eyes seem almost luminescent.

“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, clearly as excited about their assignment as Porthos himself is. This isn’t their usual kind of gig; Porthos can count on one hand the number of times he’s run surveillance from a van – like, seriously, a _van?_ – but the CIA had been short-manned and Louis had felt it necessary to lend a hand.

“A sign of good fate,” he’d said, the memory of the small catastrophe that was their previous joint operation fresh in all of their minds.

(That it was the CIA team that’d screwed up and that _they,_ therefore, was in no way indebted to them, hadn’t seemed to matter.)

They are supposed to be out in the field, Porthos thinks now, sullenly. It is well known that musketeers don’t do well in captivity.

Still, he can’t help the little grin that pulls at his lips as Athos adds, tone bordering on amused – at least to those who know him, “I’m sure Aramis is eager to leave his confinement.”

Porthos doesn’t say anything in response, but the comment has him oddly invigorated. It’s only been three days, but even this short time spent apart has left Porthos feeling like he’s missing a limb.

They’re intercepted by Gillard, the musketeer who’s been on watch with Aramis, just as they turn the right street. He looks weary, which is pretty normal after a surveillance job, but there’s something in the way his eyes keep darting about, never resting long on either of their faces, that makes Porthos continue on and leave Athos to deal with the report.

He can’t help but roll his eyes as he nears the vehicle, its size monstrous, surface black and shiny.

_Not conspicuous at all,_ he thinks sarcastically, as he pulls the back door open.

Well inside, he takes a moment to adjust his eyes to the dimmed light. When they have, his gaze easily finds the third member of his team – and the one who definitely has the lowest tolerance for inactivity. Brown eyes heavy and bloodshot, trigger finger tapping on the desk, earplugs in, and left leg bouncing sporadically off the floor, Aramis’ focus is glued to the two computer screens showing the front and back entrance of the building they are tasked with surveilling.

One look at him – combined with the fact that he doesn’t seem the least bit aware of Porthos’ presence – tells the big man all he needs to know and he sighs quietly.

“Y’know, the CIA’ll still hate our guts regardless of how this goes, so you don’t need to be takin’ it so seriously.”

He deliberately ignores the way Aramis flinches at the sound of his voice and continues casually, “But then again, if you like surveillance so much, we could probably talk the Captain into a permanent transfer.”

Aramis blinks at him, ignoring – or most likely not even registering – the jibe, a confused frown creasing his forehead.

“Porthos?” He clears his throat, voice hoarse. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to relieve us until Tuesday.”

“It _is_ Tuesday,” Athos deadpans, the van door slamming shut as he enters behind Porthos.

Aramis just looks at him, uncomprehending.

“Oh… Well, it’s been pretty quiet since Sunday,” he tells them absently, gaze returning to the screens. “Someone approached the front door yesterday around noon, but he left when no one answered so he probably wasn’t our guy…”

“Yes, Gillard informed us,” Athos interrupts patiently, but Aramis doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Did you bring any coffee?” he asks, and Porthos shares a quiet look with Athos. Aramis is a handful on a good day; Aramis on coffee is like an inebriated Woody Woodpecker; Aramis on coffee when he is _simultaneously_ struggling with his demons is not something any of them wish to experience ever again.

And the numerous paper cups from Starbucks filling the trash can testify that he’s already had more than enough of the brew.

His fingers go _tap, tap, tap_ on the counter.

“Aramis,” Athos begins, with that heavy tone of command that always has Porthos wanting to stand to attention. “You’ve done a good job. Now it’s over. Go home. Get some sleep.”

Aramis shakes his head without taking his eyes off the screens.

“Someone needs to keep watch.”

Porthos feels more than hears Athos sigh. This isn’t the first time that Aramis has fixated on something seemingly unimportant; it’s one of the many new idiosyncrasies he has acquired since the disaster named SAVOY. 

Athos sidesteps him and silently sits down on the chair next to their sniper. He dons the headphones and takes up surveilling the screens, without shooting Porthos so much as a glance. Porthos sees it for what it is and can’t help the wistful little smirk that pulls at his lips.

Apparently, this one is on him.

Moving up next to Aramis, he squeezes his friend’s arm until the sharpshooter finally lets his gaze wander from the still monitor to meet Porthos’ own.

“C’mon, up you go,” he says, effortlessly hauling their friend to his feet, steadying him when he sways.

Aramis fixes him with a challenging glare, which would’ve been much more effective if not for the bleary quality to his eyes, the dark circles underneath.

“You’re going to make me leave?”

He probably doesn’t mean for it to slip out, but exhaustion is a poor defense against the naked fear brought on by bad memories.

Porthos just shrugs.

“Nah, we both know that’d only be a waste of time,” he says. “But we’re handlin’ the surveillance.” He motions towards the kip of blankets that lies strewn against the opposite wall of the van. “We got this covered, ‘Mis.”

Aramis sighs, his shoulder slumping in defeat.

“I won’t sleep,” he mutters, not just being stubborn but only stating the facts, and something in Porthos just wants to punch because, while Aramis has never been one to sleep for long periods of time, the number of hours he generally manages now are bordering on insomnia.

But it is not anger that Aramis needs from him right now.

“Then don’t,” he says. “Just lie down. Rest your eyes for a bit, yeah?”

Although Aramis clearly isn’t happy about it, he lowers himself down, movements sluggish and heavy, all the while eyeing Porthos wearily.

Placing a hand on his friend’s arm and squeezing gently, Porthos mumbles softly, “They won’t take you, you know.”

Aramis flinches, pain-filled eyes boring into Porthos’ before darting away to study the jagged brown felt. He gives another, bone-weary sigh.

“I know,” he eventually whispers, and Porthos can tell how hard this is for him, how much he hates being like this, and he _aches_ with it. He would trade places with him in a heartbeat if he could.

“We won’t let them.” 

“I know. Porthos, I _know…_ ”

“Then trust us,” Porthos says, mentally willing the Ranger to meet his gaze. He gives a small smirk when, finally, he does. “I think Athos and I can handle one rookie surveillance mission without screwing up too bad, yeah?”

A tired smile twitches at Aramis’ lips and, after a while, he nods in reluctant acceptance. Gingerly lowering himself down onto his side, he hesitantly closes his eyes, after having them dart around the enclosed space one last time. Porthos chooses to see it as proof of how far he’s come, as opposed to how before he’d never had any problem feeling safe in their presence.

It just hurts too much to think about.

**.:.:.**

The calm doesn’t even last for one hour. Porthos glances at their still sleeping friend: blanket covering no more than his legs and his hands twitching, Aramis lies frowning, mouth moving silently and the occasional shudder running through his body.

Athos throws him a quick look.

“Let’s see if he can get out of it on his own.”

Experience has taught them that, if possible, leaving Aramis to sort through his nightmares is the best option. If they interfere, they risk waking him and that, they know, also from experience, does not end well for anyone involved. 

When, minutes later, a soft keening sound comes from the corner, Porthos decides he’ll take his chances. If it ends with him sporting broken fingers and another black eye, it’ll be worth it as long as Aramis doesn’t dive too far back into the past; Porthos still vividly remembers the first time their friend had been so deeply engulfed by his nightmares and memories that it took them close to an hour before they were finally able to reach him.

He has witnessed many things during, and before, his time in the army, but he’s never felt as helpless as he had then.

Removing the headphones and rising from the chair, he carefully makes his way over to their sniper. He contemplates waking him, but the dark circles under Aramis’ eyes and the overall weariness of his features makes him decide not to. Instead, he throws Athos a look.

“You got this covered, right?”

Athos’ only response is a raised eyebrow.

Porthos grins and climbs over Aramis, cautiously sliding down between his slender form and the wall.

The sharpshooter mumbles something unintelligible but, thankfully, doesn’t wake. Porthos carefully works his arms around him and drags him close; Aramis struggles briefly, a weak moan of protest escaping him, but Porthos doesn’t relent. He gently places a hand in his friend’s curls, mumbling nonsense to try and get him to release some of the tension that runs through his entire body like a wire.

“Alright?” Athos asks quietly some minutes later, and Porthos looks down at their ex-Ranger, frown still visible but overall seemingly more relaxed, and releases a small sigh.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I’ve got him.”


	4. See You Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! No clue if anyone's still interested in this series, but if you are, you can thank (or blame) Daisy_Chain who poked at me a few days ago asking if I had anything else to offer in this AU of mine. As it turns out, I do, so here's another installment (after two years of radio silence, but who's counting). Looking through my old TM stuff, I realized how much I miss these guys and the fandom - Musketeers and you guys were my first introduction to fan-life, and I honestly doubt I could've gotten a better experience. You will all always hold a special place in my heart <3
> 
> If this is your first run-in with this series, you might want to check out previous works before reading this one. Not that they're chronological, but I don't think it'll make much sense starting with this one.
> 
> Some backstory: Aramis has just been released from the VA where he stayed to recover following the disaster that was SAVOY and is now returning to reunite with his brothers.
> 
> No warnings for this one! Enjoy, my friends!

\---

At first glance, nothing appears to have changed.

The air still smells hot – if “hot” can be a smell –, the sun a blazing ball of vengeance upon a bloody sky, dry, untouched land stretching itself towards the horizon in every direction.

It’s exactly the same. And at the same time so very different.

After eleven hours of travel, only four of them spent in the air – how come there are no direct flights from New Orleans to México? – the familiar, rocky movement of the Humvee is like a balm to Aramis’ soul.

At least it had been, the first twenty minutes.

Now he just wants to get off the damn thing.

He swallows a sigh and allows the never-changing scenery of the Mexican no-man’s-land to become a background blur. Normally, he’d revel at the breathtaking surroundings, recalling with fondness the numerous drunken spring breaks during college…

His lips twitch.

Maybe “recalling” isn’t exactly the right word.

But other images now play across his retina: the metal taste of blood on his tongue instead of the fruity sweetness of a Sangria.

He drags a hand through his curls, tugs lightly – something he now recognizes as a nervous habit.

He’s recently learned he has quite a few. 

The memories have been with him ever since he left base half a year ago. When he isn’t consciously thinking about them, they appear in the most mundane things; the banging from construction workers is the sound of enemy fire: the deep red that covers the sky when the sun ascends the blood of his fallen comrades: the scent of newly grilled beef the stew Porthos made that last night before he left, the familiar taste lulling him into a false sense of security: the shrieking of a child the alarm, warning for enemy movement; the “click” sound from those small things used to train dogs a gun being cocked. It follows him everywhere, even into sleep.

Thankfully, the nightmares are not as frequent as they used to be.

He shakes his head to dislodge the thought.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that.

“So, what did you do to get assigned to this shithole, then?”

Aramis blinks himself back to focus and turns to his driver, a rogue-looking lieutenant with greying hair by the name of Dalton. The man had been ready to depart on a supply route when Aramis arrived at their small HQ, and graciously offered him a ride.

“I requested it,” Aramis answers truthfully, mouth twisting at the prospect of what lies merely a few miles ahead of them.

He longs to see his brothers again.

Lieutenant Dalton snorts a laugh.

“You’ve heard about that disaster last year, right? Near a third of the entire pluton wiped out in some kind of ambush by the cartels. Don’t get me wrong, they sure need the extra manpower, but no one in their right mind _wants_ to get transferred there after that hell.”

Aramis tenses, spine like a steel rod, and fights the urge to reach for the rosary hanging around his neck.

This is hitting far too close to home.

“Then I suppose I’m insane,” he finally manages, only partly joking. After all, he’s been balancing on the precipice for the last six months.

Even breaths.

In and out.

In.

Out.

Lieutenant Dalton laughs again and shakes his head, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.

“Kids today, you have no sense of self-preservation.”

Aramis smirks weakly, honestly can’t argue the point – an incident with a gun, too much wine, and a melon, among other things, comes to mind – and is grateful when his companion doesn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation.

They continue on in silence, each man absorbed by his own contemplations.

Somewhere ahead, a lone coyote howls.

[...]

“This is as far as I go,” Dalton says, and Aramis catches the bottle of water he throws him. “See ya around, kid.”

Aramis nods his head.

“Thanks again for the ride.”

“No problem.”

Looking at something behind him, Dalton smirks and gives a salute.

“Good luck with this one,” he calls. “Something tells me he’s gonna be quite a handful.”

With those words, he kicks the engine back to life, and leaves in a cloud of dust. Not that Aramis is watching; he has already turned around.

A middle-aged man stands in the opening of the largest tent on site; hair short and light, grey eyes sharp. Despite the dressing down he suffered, Captain – or rather, First Lieutenant, as it is – Treville carries himself with the same air of authority and steadfastness he had when Aramis last saw him.

Aramis feels oddly self-conscious under the scrutiny of those familiar, piercing eyes, and forces himself not to fidget.

“Captain,” he salutes.

Treville just looks at him, expression unreadable, before he strides forward and closes the gap between them.

“At ease, soldier.” He extends his hand and Aramis takes it, grateful for its strength. “I’m pleased to see you, Aramis.”

Aramis smiles, the first genuine smile since being whisked away all those months ago.

So long ago.

And still just like yesterday.

“Likewise, Sir.”

Treville holds his gaze a beat longer, before turning and gesturing for Aramis to come with him. Aramis obediently follows his patron across their small camp, eyes flickering to where laugher can be heard from the far side; though he can’t see anyone through the assemblage of tents and uneven ground.

Entering Treville’s tent, his CO takes a seat behind his desk and motions vaguely towards a foldable chair, while starting to rummage through the papers covering his desk.

“No, thank you, Captain,” Aramis politely declines. He’s been sitting more than enough for the day.

Treville’s lips quirk humorlessly.

“It’s First Lieutenant, now.”

“Yes, Sir,” Aramis says, though he knows that Treville will always be his captain. “So I heard.”

He pauses, chews on his lip.

“Sir, I… I wanted you to know, I… about… about what happened, I’m…” He breaks off, swallows, internally berates himself for his weakness.

It is not a new feeling. Guilt. It has plagued him many a night during his “convalescence” and, although some small part of him knows that he was not at fault, that he alone could never have changed the outcome of that hellish night, he has never really been able to convince himself that he is not at least partly to blame for what happened.

Something pained crosses the former captain’s features, but his voice is as steady as ever, eyes unflinching on Aramis when he speaks.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says, expression hardening when Aramis opens his mouth to protest. “What happened was not your fault, and there is nothing you can say that will make me believe otherwise.” He softens his tone. “I’m just glad that you’re alright.”

Aramis swallows again and nods. Doesn’t trust his voice to speak.

Treville studies him for a beat longer, grey eyes boring into him.

Aramis remains dutifully silent, accepting the scrutiny. His fingers twitch with the excitement of being back. He can hardly wait to go and find the others – the mere thought is enough for his muscles to tense in anticipation – but he forces himself to wait.

“It’s good to see you again,” Treville eventually repeats. “Though I must say that I was surprised when your papers were sent to me. I wasn’t expecting you back quite so soon.”

_Or at all._

The words fill the space between them, cloaked in freshly fallen snow tainted red. Deafening in their silence.

Aramis shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing the mark by a mile.

“It wasn’t much left that they could do for me, Sir,” he says, inwardly applauding himself on how his voice doesn’t waver. “And I didn’t feel much like overstaying my welcome.”

Treville gives a thoughtful hum.

“Still, you could have taken a few more weeks,” he says, every word clearly chosen with care. “Go back to Chile, visit your family…”

Aramis shakes his head.

“I appreciate it, Sir, but…” He gives a small, tense smile. “This is where I need to be.”

_This is where I belong._

Treville nods.

“Alright then.”

It’s clear that he’s about to say more, but Aramis simply can’t stop himself from asking.

“The others?” The thought of his brother is what has kept him awake more nights than any other, having to repeatedly try to convince himself that they were probably fine, that they were safe – which is quite laughable really, considering their occupation, and location. Although he knew, intellectually, that the fault would not be his, he would never have been able to forgiven himself had they gotten injured during his leave.

Guilt.

Too many months have been colored by it.

Something in Treville’s eyes softens. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light.

“They are both fine,” his captain assures him. “But don’t take my word for it, I haven’t seen them for nearly twenty minutes and God knows that’s plenty of time for them to get into trouble.”

Aramis chuckles, feels some of the tension ease from his shoulders.

“I better go see for myself, then.”

He tries not to sound too eager, but Treville’s eyes are all-knowing.

“Yes, I suppose it’s been long enough.”

Aramis smirks sheepishly. A thought strikes him.

“Have you… Do they know?”

Treville shakes his head.

“I haven’t told them. I thought it could be a surprise.”

He motions with his head towards the outside.

“Go join your brothers, Aramis. We will continue this talk later.”

Aramis recognizes that nothing definitive has been said about his future in the regiment, but the thought does little to discourage him. He doesn’t bother hiding his gratitude, but nods, salutes.

“Aramis.”

He turns around, one hand drawing the tent flaps apart.

A rare smile grazes the Captain’s features.

“Welcome back.”

TMTMTMTM

Adrenaline turns into anxiousness the closer he gets to the voices.

_What if they’re not pleased to see him?_

He dismisses the notion almost instantly, his heart berating him for even entertaining such a foolish thought, reminding him that his friends would be the first ones to throttle him if he ever voiced it out loud.

Then rumbling laughter suddenly reaches his ears and that’s the end of all and everything resembling thought processes.

His heart skips a beat – _two beats_ – chest constricting: the warmth surging through his body overwhelming but oh so welcome.

He’d know that laugh anywhere.

They sit on logs surrounding a charred stack of coal and stone, a large pot on top of it with its sun-bleached lid askew. Empty bowls are littered on the ground surrounding them, five men sharing a meal, living the simple life of soldiers.

He watches them, feet rooted to the spot, throat too tight for air to pass through – wants nothing more than to make himself known and is at the same time loath to disturb a moment so tranquil, so precious. In this life, they are few and far apart.

But not even half a year apart seems to have affected the way they are naturally tuned into each other, and Athos and Porthos turn as one, two sets of eyes eerily drawn to him, pinning him to the spot as effectively as any physical confines ever could.

The familiarity of it _aches._

They stare at each other, neither making a move or sound. Everything else fades into the background, nothing as important as this—never as important as this. Aramis is afraid to even blink, his eyes drinking in the image of his teammates, his brothers, glacial blue and earthy brown equally as shocked, his heart swelling with happiness, with relief, with _longing._

Porthos rises, slowly, almost uncertainly, as if he can’t decide whether Aramis is really there, or just a figment of his imagination.

“Aramis?” Although the confusion is noticeable in his voice, Porthos is staring at him with such childlike joy that Aramis feels his lips twist up at the corners until it starts to hurt and still he can’t seem to stop.

“Porthos,” he says softly, word like a prayer, and that’s all it takes. Between one breath and another, strong arms envelop him, that bone-crushing hug that is all _Porthos,_ and Aramis breathes for what feels like the first time in a long time, breathes in the familiar scent of earth, gunpowder, and safety.

It smells like home.

He rests his head on Porthos’ shoulder and releases a shaky breath.

 _Home, home, home, home, home…_ his mind, his heart, his soul – every pore sings it.

Another presence joins them, and Aramis doesn’t have to open his eyes to recognize the steadiness of Athos, a different kind of strength but equally as imperative, but he does so anyway, because it’s been _too long._

An eyebrow inches itself upwards in a painfully familiar fashion, and Aramis nods in answer to the unspoken question and feels himself smile even wider.

Not to fool.

Not to deflect.

Because he’s _happy._

Porthos’ answering grin could battle the sun, and then that gentle timbre fills him again.

There is so much he could tell them, so much he wants to say.

_I missed you._

_I’ve been worried sick._

_How have you been?_

_You look well._

_God I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything._

_I thought of you often – prayed for you every night._

_Do you still want me?_

_Here?_

_With you?_

He doesn’t say any of it, can’t tear his eyes away long enough to put the thoughts into words.

Porthos’ arms loosen, and Aramis only allows him to draw back because his friend still has a firm grip on his shoulders, and even then he only allows it reluctantly.  
Porthos looks at him, bright eyes reflecting Aramis’ own.

“Fuckin’ hell it’s good to see you.”

Aramis gives them a tremulous smile, feels like he could melt under their gazes, like maybe he _is_ melting, and then Athos’ arms find their way around him. Dry lips are pressed against his temple and he blinks repeatedly in a futile attempt to keep the tears at bay.

_I missed you. So, so much._

Athos withdraws too soon; though thankfully, he doesn’t go far. He studies him in silence for a while, sharp blue eyes searching, calculating, and Aramis would have felt annoyed had it been anyone else, but he knows that this is just his friend’s way of expressing concern and he appreciates it.

To a point.

“Athos,” he says, almost _whines,_ when it feels like minutes have passed in silent scrutiny, and tugs at the cuff of his friend’s fatigues.

Athos holds his gaze for another beat, before giving a small nod in acquiescence.

Aramis can see the questions in their eyes as they rake over him, assessing – in need of reassurance, as much as he is – and is grateful when they seem to decide to save them for another time.

He doesn’t think he could form a coherent sentence if his life depended on it.

Porthos drags him in for another tight embrace.

“Knew you’d be back,” he mumbles, voice thick with emotion but so unmistakably happy.

Aramis shouldn’t be surprised – really, he shouldn’t, because of course they would have faith in him, even when he himself hadn’t been able to hold onto it. Still, he feels his eyebrows rise ever so slightly, eyes welling again. For most of his time away, he had been convinced that he would never be cleared for active duty, that he might never even be allowed to leave the facility.

Though that had been the paranoia talking.

Mostly.

Now, looking at Porthos and Athos, he realizes those insecurities had never extended to his friends.

“Of course you did,” he says, voice rough. Hoping that they can see how grateful he is for their unwavering belief in him, how _instrumental_ it is to his sanity. The anxiety, uncertainty, the guilt and fear of the last few months, of the memories, it all fades in the face of it.

It feels good, being here.

It feels _right._

Safe.

Like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I gave myself so many feels writing this lol

**Author's Note:**

> PSD = Protective Services Detail (or variants of it, i.e. "security detail")
> 
> HVU = High Value Unit (person or object a team is tasked to retrieve or protect)


End file.
